


Schuldgefühle

by alfred_rosenberg



Category: Third Reich - Fandom
Genre: M/M, i ended up writing a lot for this pairing so.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25673566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alfred_rosenberg/pseuds/alfred_rosenberg
Summary: Schuldgefühle (n.) - feelings of guilt, or a guilty conscience
Relationships: Hermann Göring/Joachim von Ribbentrop
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

Ribbentrop has a bad habit of realizing things too late, and this is one of those times. 

It had started when he arrived at Göring’s for a party. Göring had insisted he have a few drinks, and Ribbentrop couldn’t refuse his host, naturally, so he had managed to choke down the harsh liquor, and before he knew it he had settled into that comfortable soft haze of drunkenness. It was actually kind of fun, and when Göring had imitated the way he greeted the King of England by heiling him, three times, in front of all the guests at dinner, he had laughed along with them all. 

But perhaps they hadn’t been laughing with him— were they laughing _at_ him? he wonders now that the dinner is over and he sits on a sofa in Göring’s parlor waiting to go home. Maybe, he thinks, the way Göring refers to him as “a champagne salesman” isn’t a token of endearment, and Ribbentrop remembers the way he had said it at dinner, as if it was something laughable. 

And then there’s the way everyone had looked at him when Göring imitated his greeting, with a mixture of amusement and superiority, the way someone looks at his dog who has just done something stupid yet funny. Goebbels’ eyes in particular had glittered with a kind of contempt, and Ribbentrop feels a sudden sense of shame and embarrassment. Why hadn’t he realized what Göring was doing then? His heart sinks into a sort of quiet despair, and he realizes why Göring even invited him in the first place.

And then Göring walks in, smiling when he sees him. Ribbentrop is too drunk to even feel angry or confront him, though, so when Göring sits on the sofa very close to him, he just looks at him, a blank expression on his face. 

“Wasn’t that dinner nice?” Göring asks, and Ribbentrop nods slowly. In some distant, more lucid part of his mind, he realizes Göring has him exactly where he wants him. “You should come over more often. It was wonderful to have you here.” He puts a hand on Ribbentrop’s shoulder kindly, as if he was comforting a friend, and Ribbentrop appreciates the gentle weight in spite of what Göring did to him earlier.

It would hurt more if he was sober, but it still feels awful to Ribbentrop to be publicly embarrassed like that. He opens his mouth to say something back, to protest, maybe, about the way Göring treats him, but Göring is still looking at him with that smile, and Ribbentrop realizes there’s nothing he can say to look less pathetic. His brain is so muddled that maybe he couldn’t even say anything if he tried, anyway. 

Göring just laughs at his lack of resolve, and when he leans in Ribbentrop suddenly realizes how powerless he really is. He wishes he never came to the party in the first place, but he can’t get himself to push Göring off of him when he kisses him, mostly because somehow he _likes_ it, it feels nice, even though it makes him very nervous too. Göring knows how to get what he wants, after all, everyone knows that, and when he pushes Ribbentrop down onto the sofa, Ribbentrop doesn’t protest, because this seems less shameful than what Göring did to him at dinner, and even though it makes him feel like a rabbit in a hunter's trap, he likes it. 


	2. Chapter 2

Ribbentrop is home now, safely tucked away in his armchair in his study. The lingering tipsy feeling in his brain is fading away, slowly, returning him to something similar to lucidity. It allows him to think about the evening's events, although he isn’t sure that he wants to. 

But he does anyways, almost against his own will; back to the way Göring had pushed him down on the sofa and how he had touched him, gently yet firmly, grabbing him like a boy playing with his favorite toy, always with that pleased smile on his face. Ribbentrop isn’t used to being treated like that; it’s the kind of thing that makes him grimace in distaste to think about, actually, but when Göring had done it, it was _nice_ , and he had liked it. He had liked it, and that fact brings up an indelible sense of shame that twists in his stomach and makes a lump in his throat. _Why?_ he wonders, as if he’ll give himself an answer. _Why did I like it?_ It’s a useless question; even if he knew why he’d never admit it anyways. 

And then there’s the issue of him cheating on his wife, too— he had gotten home late, but she had been waiting up for him. She had smiled when she saw him, gently, the way she always did, and when she had asked how the party was, he had smiled back. “It was good,” he had said, easily and truthfully, as if it really had been just good. It had made him feel sick to lie to her like that, but what else was he supposed to do? He loves her, and for both of their sakes he knows he can never even begin to explain to her what happened tonight. He can't even explain it to himself. 

Ribbentrop suddenly wishes he was drunk again; at least he didn't think too much when he was intoxicated. The issue of work comes up in his mind now. Working will, in theory, keep him from thinking of these things too much; to alleviate the guilt, maybe, just a little, by serving his country. But Göring comes in much too often for his liking, and what if, one day, they’re alone in his office and _that_ happens again? Even if he was sober Ribbentrop has the sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t stop Göring then, either. 

Surely if he had been strong enough to say no he wouldn’t be here right now. He knows what the other Reich officials say about him— stupid, incompetent, pompous, various insults on his intelligence and capability. It doesn’t really bother him, usually, but maybe there _is_ something true in their complaints. He certainly must be very stupid for allowing that to happen and not realizing the heavy sense of guilt it’d make him feel, and now he understands why people call him foolish. He doesn't want to go back to work, suddenly; there's too much that could go wrong, but Hitler will be upset at him if he doesn't, and he can't decide which scenario would be worse for him.

He can’t avoid it forever, though, and after a few days he has to go back into the office, spurred on by various phone calls from his staff. There’s a low feeling of something not quite powerful enough to be called dread in his stomach as he walks up the familiar stairs to the building and through the doors that intensifies with every step. _It’s alright_ , he thinks as he gets to his office, _there’s nothing wrong, this will be good for me, I—_

Göring is there when he opens the door. 

Ribbentrop freezes, his body going rigid, and he stares at him dumbly, the way a rabbit stops and refuses to run when it’s startled. There’s no reaction in his head; no urge to turn around and walk away, nothing to say something angrily or otherwise, and so he stands there numbly, wishing this wasn't real. _I knew I shouldn’t have_ , he thinks from a place very far away in his mind, _I knew this was going to happen, I knew it, I shouldn’t have been so stupid—_

“Good morning, Ribbentrop,” Göring says. He smiles in a pleasant and good-natured way, but it’s sickeningly sweet to Ribbentrop and it reminds him of the bitter taste of the alcohol he had given him that night. He has something in his hand, and he places it on the desk. It’s an envelope. “The Führer asked me to give this to you.”

“Thank you,” Ribbentrop says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. His mouth is very dry, and the words feel strange coming out of his throat. 

“Have a nice day,” Göring says, giving him a last smile as he leaves. He shuts the door behind him, and when it clicks Ribbentrop almost stumbles to his chair to sit down. He’s clenched his hands into fists without realizing it, his nails leaving imprints on his palm, and his heart is beating much too quickly, the adrenaline wearing off too slowly for him to think straight. Nothing even happened, but seeing Göring again has brought up the guilt and shame he’s been trying too hard to avoid, and he looks dully at the envelope on his desk. He doesn’t care what’s inside of it, and he doesn’t even want to know, either. It’s really only a reminder of his own weakness to him, but he supposes he has no choice, and so Ribbentrop shakily reaches out and takes it between his fingers and wishes again in vain that he had never agreed to go to that party in the first place. 


	3. Chapter 3

Ribbentrop wishes he knew why he was here. Well, he does know; it’s because he wants Göring to do this to him, but that’s not something he wants to admit to himself, even here on his knees in front of him. But he’s thought about this, hasn’t he? Many times (countless times, really) he’s imagined this scene a million ways, right down to the way the hard floor hurts his knees. It’s why he had called Göring up to ask him if he could talk with him about something, but that was, of course, really just a weak excuse that had crumbled apart easily when Göring greeted him. 

“Say it,” Göring says in front of him. 

“I… I’m…” he starts, and then stops. He can’t bring himself to say it; his mouth is very dry and he runs his tongue over his lips. A strange combination of his own pride and embarrassment prevents him from doing it, but he has to, he knows; he knew from the moment Göring told him to get on his knees that he'd have to do whatever he was told to do. But, of course, rather than being revolted by the thought of that, he wants it to happen, and that fact has brought him here in spite of whatever shame he feels.

His gaze has dropped to some point away from Göring, and he stares there almost without noticing, but after a moment Göring grabs Ribbentrop’s jawline too hard, forcing him to look back at him. “Look me in the eyes when you talk to me,” he says. “And say it. Tell me what you want me to do.”

Ribbentrop really has no choice, and the way Göring is digging his fingers into his jawline hurts, his nails imprinting his skin. “I’m your dirty little slut,” he says, quietly, “and I want to be used by you.” 

“ _Surely_ you can say it louder,” Göring says, smiling. 

“I’m your dirty little slut,” Ribbentrop says, louder this time, his face burning, “and I want to be used by you.” It’s quite easy to say, actually, in spite of the way it makes him want to clench his fists and grit his teeth, and isn’t it the truth? If he wasn’t Göring’s dirty little slut, then why would he be here? 

“How pathetic,” Göring says, an expression of distaste on his face. “Who knew someone as _upper-class_ as you would be into this? It’s disgusting, really.” It’s a very obvious insult at his supposed nobility and it makes Ribbentrop curl his mouth downwards in hurt. He knows he should be quiet and take it, but he’s still too prideful to let it slide, even now. 

“I’m not pathetic,” Ribbentrop starts, more to convince himself than anything else, "I—" He doesn’t know what to say, exactly, because being on his knees like this in front of Göring _is_ pathetic and there’s no way he can deny it, but then Göring slaps him across the face, displeased with his futile attempts to salvage his ego. It’s hard enough to jerk his head to the side and Göring’s rings cut into the delicate skin on his cheek, cold metal against warm flesh, and the pain from the brute force of his hand is immediate and sharp, stunning him for a split second. Ribbentrop’s mouth opens and he moans, either because of the pain or because Göring actually hit him in the first place or maybe both, and when he realizes what he’s done he snaps his mouth shut and feels the burning sense of shame and embarrassment that fills his chest. 

“You are,” Göring continues, “and you should learn when to shut up.” Ribbentrop hates the way he’s treating him, but he hates the fact that he can feel himself getting hard because of it more. Göring shoves his boot in between Ribbentrop’s legs without warning, pressing up against him, and he bites his lip, trying to stop himself from rutting his hips against it. It’s such a humiliating position to be in, but that’s certainly why Göring has him like this, to remind Ribbentrop that he really is this pathetic. 

“Say that you’re a filthy slut who deserves to be punished,” Göring says. His voice is light, but there’s something there that makes Ribbentrop think that he’d better say it before something worse happens to him. 

“I—" he starts, but then stops again. Even like this he’s hesitant to say it, mostly because he knows deep down that it’s the truth, that he _is_ actually a filthy slut who deserves to be punished, and he doesn’t want to admit that to himself. Göring isn’t having that, though, and he presses his jackboot up harder against him, making Ribbentrop make a muffled little noise in his throat. 

“I’m a filthy slut who deserves to be punished,” he says, forcing himself to keep making eye contact with Göring, but when he increases the pressure of his boot Ribbentrop winces and moves backwards without thinking. Göring lashes out with his other foot, kicking him squarely in the stomach. Ribbentrop yelps, gritting his teeth and exhaling at the blunt force that wants to knock him over. It _hurts_ , along with his still-stinging cheek, and the dull waves of pain it sends radiating through him is enough to make him give up any pretense of resistance in his mind. It sort of makes him want to cry, both because no one’s ever done this to him before and also because he realizes he likes the way it feels, to be treated as if he’s nothing better than dirt. 

Göring threads his hand into Ribbentrop’s hair, entangling his fingers in it and almost pulling it. “Good boy,” he says, grinning in a very predatory way that makes Ribbentrop uncomfortable, and then he places his other boot, the one he had kicked him with, in his face. Ribbentrop is confused for a moment, but then he hears Göring tell him to “be a good little slut and clean it” and he opens his mouth, running his tongue up his boot and wishing he didn't enjoy something this demeaning. He wonders, dimly, what the other Reich officials would say if they saw him like this, and the taste of leather and polish and dirt fills his mouth. It’s bitter and gritty on his tongue and he wants to pull away but Göring’s hand is still tightly gripping his hair, forcing his face onto it, and he can feel his cock throb in his pants and he wishes, desperately, that Göring will let him cum, although he knows he doesn’t deserve it, because he’s such a filthy little slut.

He keeps running his tongue along the leather of his boot, diligently cleaning it as best he can in spite of the way it makes him feel used, until Göring gets impatient and jerks his head back. Ribbentrop’s gaze lands on the bulge in his crotch and he realizes what Göring wants him to do next and his eyes widen. He knew that he would probably have to do this, of course, he isn’t _that_ stupid, but now that he’s actually faced with the task Ribbentrop freezes again, the sad remainders of his pride and inexperience preventing him from doing it. 

“This is what you wanted, though, right?” Göring asks from above him. “You said it yourself.” Ribbentrop knows that’s true, he _did_ say it himself, and so he tentatively nods and reaches forwards, wishing his fingers weren’t trembling this badly so that maybe Göring wouldn’t know he’s this weak. 

But of course he’d know either way; it’s Göring, after all, and as Ribbentrop shakily undoes his belt and unbuttons his pants he runs his tongue over his lips in an effort to get saliva in his dry mouth. Göring’s cock is already hard when he pulls it out of his pants, and Ribbentrop wonders how he’s going to do this at all, but then Göring wrenches his mouth open and he doesn’t have time to wonder anymore as his fingers curl over his lip to the edge of his teeth. 

“Beg for it,” Göring orders. There’s such a heavy expression of smugness on his face that it makes Ribbentrop feel sick. 

“Please,” he says, a note of desperation in his voice although he doesn’t want there to be. Ribbentrop’s breath is harsh and ragged now in his throat, perhaps because of what he knows is about to happen, and it gives his words a hoarse edge that makes him sound supplicant. “Please let me suck your cock.” The tip of his tongue hits Göring’s fingers as he says it, leaving spit on them.

“Since you asked so nicely,” Göring says, as if this is something like giving a pet a reward, and Ribbentrop breathlessly leans forwards. He knows he certainly has to make things at least a little bit easier for himself, and he pools as much saliva onto his tongue as he can before running it up Göring’s shaft, wetting it as much as he can in the vain hope that it’ll go smoother for him. Göring’s hand finds the back of his head again, guiding him gently until he decides it’s enough and pulls him away again. 

“Open your mouth,” Göring instructs and it seems like his voice is coming from somewhere very far away, hazy and faint, but Ribbentrop does and then Göring’s cock is in his mouth. It’s heavy and hot on his tongue and he feels the way it presses against the back of his throat. His jaw aches already and he doesn’t know how he’s going to manage to do this for much longer, but his own cock throbs between his legs again and he groans. 

Göring obviously isn’t expecting Ribbentrop to do much more than that and he starts to move himself, fucking his mouth, and Ribbentrop is left to hold himself still and force his jaw open, feeling the way his cock hits his gag reflex and almost makes him choke. 

His eyes tear up, either from a physical reaction or an emotional one or maybe both, he doesn’t know, and he can’t really do more than make little muffled noises around Göring’s cock deep in his throat. This whole situation is a deeply hidden fantasy come true for him; he’s imagined how this would go all too often, right down to the embarrassment and guilt that feels like lead in his heart, and the realization of that combined with the pressure of Göring’s boot still under him and the heat and weight and pain of him in his mouth makes the heat in his stomach build until he cums almost without realizing what he’s doing, and it cements the fact of his real patheticness in his mind and makes him feel the acute shame he thought he had left behind. 

Göring cums after a moment too, not bothering to pull out, and Ribbentrop has no choice but to swallow it, even though he doesn’t want to, and it’s sticky and salty in his throat, leaving a taste behind that feels like it won’t wash out. It makes him marvel at his own stupidity and foolishness; what kind of a man is he that he’d let Göring use him like this? _Surely a very pitiful one_ , Ribbentrop thinks as Göring slides his cock out of his throat, and he leans back as he pulls his boot out from under him. He feels his hand stroke his hair, smoothing it back from his sweat-slicked forehead almost comfortingly.

“I should get home,” Ribbentrop says very quietly, standing up unsteadily, as if going home will help him at all. It won’t, and they both know that, just as they both know that Ribbentrop will certainly come back here too. 


End file.
